


Fun Fatale: Playtime's Over

by RsCreighton



Series: Gen Prompt Bingo [6]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Audio Format: MP3, Audio Format: Streaming, Choking, Consent Play, F/M, Mission Related, Podfic & Podficced Works, Podfic Length: 20-30 Minutes, Porn With Plot, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 19:36:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2663870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RsCreighton/pseuds/RsCreighton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Work and play, or: the creative way to hunt for a target.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fun Fatale: Playtime's Over

**Author's Note:**

> Also written for the prompts "[Back Alley Banging](http://1-million-words.livejournal.com/816420.html)" from 1-million-words' Torrid Tuesday Challenge, "[consent play](http://crookedspoon.dreamwidth.org/128878.html#cutid1)" at kink_bingo Round 6 and "[A Terrible Solution](http://crookedspoon.dreamwidth.org/133362.html#cutid4)" at genprompt_bingo.
> 
> Much love and thanks to Neurotoxia and ThatwasJustaDream for the beta.
> 
>  **Length:** 21:38  
>  **Download:** [mp3](http://crookedspoon.parakaproductions.com/podfic/rscreighton/arrow-funfatale.mp3) (19.8 MB)
> 
> Please right click and "Save As".

  


The jacket he threw around her shoulders earlier barely cushions the impact as her back hits the brick wall. Barely shields her from the cold stone, either. And while she's enumerating discomforts, she might as well mention the wind and the drizzle and the _stink_ from the trash cans next to them. Yuck. Smells like rotten fish. Harley hates fish.

Such a turn-off.

The absurdity of the situation and all that figured into it makes her want to laugh, but before she even has the chance to giggle, his hand tightens around her throat.

A rush of ‘oh, yes, now we're talking’ runs through her, except, she's not talking anytime soon, is she? Not with him cutting off any sounds she might make, positive or negative. Perhaps he wants to nip her complaints in the bud? Not so sure about the quality of his companionship, is he?

She tries to slap him, dig her nails into his face. She'd taken care to paint her nails a bright red – a color that looks good clawing into his skin.

Anyway, she's been waiting for some action all night; nothing like a bit of a scuffle after hours to warm her up. Especially since the two shots of tequila he'd allowed her earlier have already fled her system again. Harley usually can’t hold her liquor, but that tomato soup cocktail she had afterwards must have done the trick. That, and going so _slooow_ it's bordering on painful.

"Take it easy," he'd said, prying the glass out of her grip before she'd downed half of it. "Waller needs you on the job, not under the table."

"Bet you wouldn't mind me under the table right now," she’d teased. Her tongue flicked over her lips to wipe off the tomato residue. "I'd make it worth your while, you know I would."

"I wouldn't mind you tellin' me why you suggested a dive like this in the first place."

He had a point. It was a rather run-down setting they were in, like the sort of country roadhouse no one had frequented in decades. Yet the clientele was a lively commingling of rough worker types, struggling artists desperate for an inspiration, and young couples out for a cheap thrill. Whatever they were out looking for, they were likely to find it here.

In a diner the two of them might have been more easily spotted, which was kind of the whole point of their dress-up: let the target find them first. But the sharp angles, the glaring artificial lights in a diner were, in her eyes, more suited to first dates or breaking up than to what they had in mind. The dim atmosphere of a bar created an illusion of privacy that gave them an excuse to be intimate with each other. Harley'd been having fun with it all evening, watching him divide his attention between their surroundings and the fingers that trailed almost absent-mindedly down her neck, over the soft swell of her breasts to pop just one more button of her blouse because mmh, wasn't it a bit warm in here?

"Our guy prefers surroundings where he can lurk in peace," she’d said, leaning over just slightly so he'd have a good look at her cleavage, because frankly, who wouldn't want to show off their tits if they'd been given a gorgeous lace-edged bra like this?

She watched his gaze shift away while he added smoke to the haze billowing above their heads, obscuring the ceiling. The ashtray on their table was full of ashes and pistachio shells left over from the previous occupants. It would have been nice had they left any for her to play with, because waiting? Not her strong suit. She needed to occupy herself with _something_ and since she'd already shredded all the beermats on their table to bits, she played with the knot in her tie, loosening it just a bit more.

"And how come that fact wasn't in his file?" he asked. His attention, when it returned from its survey of the room, caught on her chest.

"Let's just say I have special intel." She grinned. So easy. "Now, sweetcheeks. Gimme a coin, would ya?"

"What for?"

He took another drag from his cigarette, lighting up the ember a yellow-gray, before he stabbed the butt into the graveyard with its buddies, and although she hated the taste of tobacco, it didn't stop her from enjoying the visuals, because damn. She might just have developed an oral fixation. Keep talking, cupcake, I'll be over here puddling over the way your lips move...

"The jukebox, dummy," she said as much to herself as to him, once she remembered he'd asked her a question. "A change of music might liven up the place a bit. And draw attention to me. And my pretty pleated skirt. Or rather, what's beneath it." She trailed a finger around the rim of her glass. "Unless you'd rather I slip under the table for a bit."

The strong hand trailing up her thigh had left goosebumps in its wake and a moan died in her throat when two fingers stole just beneath the hem of her panties. 

"You really love this mission, don't you?" he’d murmured, wry amusement lacing his voice, and Harley gasped as he squeezed her ass. Hard. It was still sore from the beating it'd received earlier. Her skirt barely covered up the welts, but she didn't care who saw them. Let them know she's _that_ kinda girl. It's all part of her charm.

"I'd love it even more if we got the fun stuff started already," she’d said and tugged at his shirt. "C'mon, let's look for a nice, deserted cubicle."

He’d huffed and ran his thumb over her puffy cheek. "This afternoon wasn't enough for you?"

Despite herself, she'd colored slightly at the memory. He'd roughed her up a good deal earlier – it had taken quite a bit of makeup to cover up the marks, but there hadn't been enough ice around to deal with the swelling. In short: it had been awesome. A creative way to interpret their cover. 

She smiled, baring her choppers. "A girl's gotta have fun while she can. Especially if she doesn't know what tonight's gonna bring. Might've just been the last time for either of us."

This whole set-up reeks, after all.

And who would have thought that tonight would see her cold ass caught in a cuddle between two brick walls – one real, the other in human skin? Sure, they've gone over the mission details, but Harley didn't picture them quite this vividly.

Or this alarmingly real. Her body's reacting to her dwindling oxygen levels and is lashing out, writhing and kicking. It's a conscious effort to keep up appearances and not to fight in earnest.

Thankfully, the pressure on her throat abates a little. 

"I'm gonna let you go now," he murmurs into her ear. "Be sure to apologize."

God, she wants to snog him stupid, but the sweet air rushing back into her lungs overwhelms her with a coughing fit. Her neck feels cold and exposed now and Harley's sure she's gonna have a sore throat tomorrow – if she survives that long.

"Oh my god I'm so sorry," she babbles just in case someone overhears and grips his shoulders, arms, face, trying to implore. "I'm sorry I flirted with that barkeep earlier I know I shouldn't have I'm sorry it won't happen again I promise please forgive me!"

She hopes their performance is convincing enough, because the lines they throw at each other are clichéd drivel at best – Waller really needs better writers on her team. His jealous boyfriend act is rather cute, though. He warns her to keep her eyes to herself because she belongs to him alone, and ain't that charming? He's got such a way to make a girl feel special. Meanwhile, she alternates between "What are you doing?" and "You're hurting me!" until she demands him to let her go. Which is not exactly something his persona likes to hear.

Although she's beginning to grow bored with the act, this scenario is weirdly exhilarating. Her heart is pounding in her throat and she wants nothing more than to fuck him so hard he's gonna cry, but of course she has to wait for him to make the first move. Did she mention this is getting boring?

When his fingers finally find their way between her legs, she has to keep herself from jumping into his arms and shouting "Take me now!" The evening's gone on long enough without anything more than teasing and she's too eager to back down.

"Don't forget to beg me," he growls, twisting her head to the side, and she's glad to be caught between a rock and a hard place (heh, _hard_ ) because her knees can only handle so much foreplay before they give way.

Right. She's not supposed to enjoy this. (A difficult task if there ever was one.)

Harley tries out her vocal repertoire of whimpers to find one befitting a damsel in distress but oh boy does she seize up when he nudges her panties aside. Her freezing ass is certainly gonna earn her cystitis, but she'll worry about that later. For now, she still has a role to play.

She sobs with relief, hoping it comes out sounding more like despair, when his fingers slip into her. Oh, this is good. She gives yet another weak show of struggling – as much to make him look like he's overpowering her as to grind herself on those delightful digits.

"No!" she cries, and it's ridiculous how much of a turn-on pretending not to like it is. "Don't! Please, don't do this! Not here." _Yes! Go on! Please! Oh, right there. Don't. Stop._ "Let's just go home. Please!"

Not that her _heartfelt_ pleading has any effect on him. He smacks her as best he can with his limited range of movement. The contact warms her cheek, but she's more offended when his fingers retreat and leave her craving again.

"You still good?" he murmurs against her neck, breaking character.

"Peachy." Though really, she'd rather do this somewhere else. His question, though, gives her pause. He wouldn't be concerned about her now, would he? "Don't go _soft_ on me. I'm having a blast."

"Not my idea of fun," he grunts in reply, and she hears the pieces of his belt buckle click as he opens it. A shiver of anticipation runs through her when it flicks against her thigh.

"Liar. You're stiff as a board."

"Get back to screaming."

It's hard to concentrate on fighting him when she's been waiting for him to force her legs apart and himself between them.

"No!" she breathes and shakes her head, almost frantic. "No, no, no!"

_Yes!_

She dissolves into a wordless scream when he sinks into her. Sweet Mother Earth, finally! 

He gives her a second to cry herself hoarse and himself another to coordinate angle, balance and rhythm. The punishing force behind his thrusts shudders through her entire body, cuts off her cries, and sends them out in short bursts. She's had enough of abusing her pipes anyway. Time to occupy her mouth otherwise. Unfortunately, he wouldn't let her kiss him, but instead jammed a hand down her throat. The intrusion pries her jaws apart uncomfortably, but oh fun, they've never done _that_ before. He can be so delightfully creative when he sets his mind to it!

She gags around his fingers, concentrating more on the simple act of breathing than on fighting him off. Her heart is beating wildly against her chest, drowning out the silence of the surrounding streets. She strains to listen for approaching footsteps over the occasional vroom of passing cars, his labored breathing and her own gurgled moans. It's unsurprising no one's followed her screams to this dreary back-alley, given that few possess the courage to face the dangers that might lurk. However, one person should feel compelled to show up. The success of their charade depends on it.

Or so the outline in their mission file goes. Not that she'll complain when the guy's a no-show. Her present company is enough to keep her entertained for the rest of the night. And she's not that keen on an audience.

Waller, however, wants this current serial killer scare over asap and, if possible, his latest victims rescued. That, of course, works best if they knew where they are being kept. So far, neither the FBI nor Waller's special unit have been able to scrounge up any details regarding the perp's hide-out. Which is a real shame because he likes to torture his victims before he kills them – among them, currently, some bigshot in either business or politics (Harley cared little as long as she got out of her cell for a while and a date with Lawton into the bargain).

Lucky for them, no new bodies have been found, and no new persons have been reported missing. This gives them a window to become those missing persons themselves. The best way to find a serial killer's lair is to be captured and taken there, after all.

She only hopes they were correct in assessing that he demonstrates his carving skills on his old victims before killing and disposing of them while his new ones watch, giving them something to look forward to as they wait for their turn.

She'd rather not wake up to find their assumptions refuted and her genitals mutilated. That would put a serious damper on her day. Not to mention how much she hates being wrong.

"Waller, I have a visual," he says suddenly, slowing his movements and withdrawing his hand from her mouth. As soon as her convulsions stop, she wipes away the tears that've spilled from her eyes and the stream of saliva running down her chin. Man, is she gonna be sore in places.

Way to spoil the mood, though. She was enjoying herself here! Clamping her thighs tighter around him, she's unwilling to let go of him just yet.

" _Do not engage_ ," comes the reply over their comms. " _Let him approach first. See how he proceeds. Otherwise, continue as planned._ "

No, lady, sorry, she thinks. Moment's gone. Hope you got enough kicks out of the show, because it's now officially over.

"Get off me," she demands, batting at his chest. She's not feeling it any longer. She _could_ get back into the mood were she able to concentrate on, well, fucking him, but her current line of thought's a combination of _sore, cold, bored_ , not to mention _frustrated_ , and anyway, time's running out.

At the end of the alley, a trash can topples over. His head jerks to the direction of the sound, and the rest of his body stills. Case in point.

"Who's there?" he calls, letting her down slowly but keeping her pinned against the wall while he makes himself decent again.

A figure wearing a long overcoat emerges from the shadows. Harley's fingers dart to a sudden prick in her neck, as though a mosquito just bit her. Something's sticking out from it – a hypodermic needle? From the looks of it, Lawton's got hit as well. How ironic. He's not even equipped to retaliate, but Harley's sure he's itching to. His fingers twitch.

"The hell is this?" he asks and throws the tube-like dart to the ground. It shatters. "What d'you want?"

"I'm sorry for intruding," the figure says and spreads his hands in an appeasing gesture. "I couldn't help but overhear your girlfriend's screams.”

"What's it to you?" Lawton takes a step forward, but not before pushing her onto the trash bags littering the sides of the alley. Nice move, Buckshot.

"Careful now," the man says. "The more you exert yourself the faster the sedative will work."

Undeterred, Lawton advances, as though ready to challenge the intruder to a fistfight. Not two paces into the game, there's a loud snap and some crackling like low-tech transmission. and Lawton goes down with a groan.

Pushing herself up from whatever sharp things are poking through the plastic bags, she scrambles to her feet and stumbles towards him. A slight feeling of vertigo is already setting in, though that could also be some alcohol residue – or both, amplifying each other.

"What did you do to him?" she asks the man as she gathers Lawton's head in her lap and swats his cheek. Shards and gravel bite into her exposed knees. "Stay with me, you bastard."

A pair of thin wavy wires extend from his chest into the darkness.

"Did he hurt you, my dear?" the figure says, almost sympathetic. "Never fear. He won't do it again, I promise."

"Are you going to kill him?" she asks, feeling her mouth go slack, harder to control, and herself grow quiet, so quiet.

"Oh no, dear, not yet. You can do that yourself later, if you wish."

She blinks up at him. "Why?"

He cocks his head and kneels in front of her. Suddenly, a blinding flash stabs into her eyes – testing the reaction time of her pupils would be her guess, but she turns her head away and shields herself from the light source. Perhaps the sedative he administered isn't working as quickly as he anticipated. Haloperidol or some BZD variant, perhaps, she's mostly tolerant to those. They used to pump her full of drugs back at Arkham, when she got into fights with Mr. J or became hysteric after he left without busting her out as well.

"Dr. Quinzel?" the man inquires, somewhat puzzled, and moves her hand away so he can shine in her face. "So it is you." His voice takes on the gentle quality of a father admonishing his daughter. "Still hanging out with the bad boys, I see."

"And you're as sharp as ever, Dr. Carver," she mumbles.

In her lap, Lawton's frowning at her – probably still registering the exchange – then frowning at her old acquaintance. Or rather, the syringe in his hand.

"You even remember my old nickname," 'Carver' chuckles, as he soaks up some solution from a vial he's been carrying in his coat pocket. She just watches as he holds it up and flicks the needle with a finger before pressing the tip against Lawton's neck. Lawton groans, but remains immobile.

"Don't you worry. I'll take good care of you two."

She doesn't struggle when he repeats the procedure with her, but using the inside of her elbow instead of her neck. She just goes on staring blankly.

"Sleep now," she hears, an echo from far-off, before she succumbs to the heaviness in her bones.


End file.
